


Carpet Burn

by femalegothic



Series: something tender, anyway [1]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Choking, F/M, Sexual Violence, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26831416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femalegothic/pseuds/femalegothic
Summary: She was lucky, she thought, that her new bed wasn’t assembled yet. Now it would be untainted with the memory of them. Maybe she’d sleep easier in a bed he’d never been in. Maybe, for once, she’d be able to close her eyes without thinking of him. Of the way he’d kissed her, and touched her, and fucked her. Of the way he’d looked at her, open and tender, his deep brown eyes shining.It was unlikely.She would think of him regardless. She always did.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Series: something tender, anyway [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874368
Comments: 22
Kudos: 156





	Carpet Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: This work contains a graphic description of strangulation, like actually trying to kill someone strangulation. Please proceed with caution.
> 
> Takes place well before the events of The Clementine.

She’s not sure how they ended up here—fucking on her bedroom floor. 

The room is entirely empty, save the pile of pillows and blankets she’s been struggling to sleep on for months. Last night should have been her last on the floor, her new bed having arrived earlier that afternoon. It’s sitting in her living room now, still boxed up and unassembled. She’d walked past it when she arrived home, planning to change into some leggings, drink some bourbon, and put it together.

That had been her plan for her night alone. No husband. No kids. Just her, her new bed, and a full charge on her vibrator.

But, as it turned out, she wasn’t alone tonight. 

He leaned casually against her closed bedroom door when she came out from her en suite, still tying her robe closed. She stopped cold in her tracks when she noticed him, watching her with that familiar intensity. For a long moment, they just stared at each other from across the room—him standing against the door, expression unreadable, and her struggling to hide the trembling in her knees. 

He made the first move this time, pushing off the wall and approaching her slowly. She stood completely still, forcing him to come all the way to her and making no move to meet him in the middle. Her heart raced with each step, pounding in her chest so loudly it's all she can hear. She wanted badly to run, but even more, she wanted to stay.

As he stopped in front of her, his chest just a breath from hers, she opened her mouth to say something—to ask him why he was here—but nothing came out. 

Instead, she just looked at him. He seemed so much taller tonight. She’d forgotten how he towered over when she stood before him, feet bare and flat on the ground. So caught up in his beautiful dark eyes, she didn’t even notice his hand until his finger hooked beneath her robe, just beneath her collarbone. He moved slowly, carefully dragging his finger along the silky edge. 

She let him pull open her robe, letting out a shaky, surprised breath as he pushed it off her shoulders, the fabric fluttering noiselessly to the ground and pooling around her feet. He stared at her naked body for a long second, taking her in hungrily, as if he’d been starving for her.

Like she’d been starving for him.

So there they were—fucking in a bedroom with no bed. 

She was lucky, she thought, that her new bed wasn’t assembled yet. Now it would be untainted with the memory of them. Maybe she’d sleep easier in a bed he’d never been in. Maybe, for once, she’d be able to close her eyes without thinking of him. Of the way he’d kissed her, and touched her, and fucked her. Of the way he’d looked at her, open and tender, his deep brown eyes shining. 

It was unlikely.

She would think of him regardless. She always did. 

He was in her thoughts no matter how she tried to push him out. She thought of him at work, when she printed the funny money, imagining him sitting there on that stool, watching her through hooded eyes. She thought about him at the park, remembering how he played with his son, lifting Marcus onto his shoulders with practiced ease. She thought about all the little details about his life that Fitzgerald uncovered for her, all there in the itemized bill still stashed in her bathroom vanity. 

He played tennis. He’d turned 37 in August. His name really was Christopher.

And she thought of him in bed. In her old bed, on her pallet on the floor, and she’d think of him in her new bed. The way he’d kissed her, and touched her, and fucked her. How he satisfied her in a way she’d never been before.

Most of all, she thought about the way he looked at her, the way his dark eyes were always locked on her, his unrelenting gaze burrowing into her, digging down deep into her core. 

But she doesn’t have to fantasize about him tonight. He’s here with her, live and in-person—fucking her on her bedroom floor. 

They aren’t even on her makeshift pallet. Instead, they’re lying in the center of the room with nothing between her back and the carpet.

It burns.

Their pace is frantic. Each thrust somehow harder than the last. She’s bucking up against him, trying to take him as best she can, but she can’t quite match his rhythm. His grip is tight on her waist, holding her tight to him as he fucks her. 

There’d been no foreplay. No kissing or touching before he had her on her hands and knees, taking him at a punishing pace. Her fantasies hadn’t done him justice; in all those months subsiding on the memory of him, she’d forgotten the way he filled her, the way he stretched her, how the feeling of him inside her made her dizzy with pleasure. 

He’s got her on her back now, his head buried in the crook of her neck. He’s not really kissing her, more panting, hot, and open-mouthed against her clavicle, but the feeling of his lips on her skin has her head spinning anyway. 

She’s fully naked—her bare skin exposed and rubbed raw by the carpet beneath her. 

He’s almost fully dressed, his pants unbuttoned and pushed down just enough for him to fuck her. She can feel the cold metal of his belt buckle digging into the hot skin of her thigh and the teeth of his zipper scraping against her with each thrust. She clings to him, her raw hands fisting into the soft, black material of his shirt. She presses up into him, trying to lift herself up and away from the carpet’s burn. But he’s pressing into her just as hard, driving her back down, and leaving no room for relief.

It hurts, but she doesn’t want him to stop. 

He’s fucking her so deep and the angle of their position has him grinding down hard on her clit. She doesn’t last long like that—the fire building in her stomach burns hotter with each thrust, and suddenly it’s flames are shooting up her spine and setting her whole body ablaze. She’s shaking and crying out, clenching around him as she cums. She no longer feels the pain in her back or her knees or her hands. She feels nothing but warm pleasure and tingling in her toes. 

He keeps fucking her, his pace unrelenting. She takes it—fucked out and half numb—she barely notices when he falters a bit, his hips jerking arrhythmically against hers. He pulls out—kneeling over her with his knee pressed firmly between her thighs and strokes himself. Through half-shut eyes, she watches his cock, still wet with her, slip through his clenched fist. His whole body shudders when he cums, she feels his leg trembling against her still sensitive clit. 

His cum paints her chest and neck, pooling between her breasts and dripping down into her hair. It’s warm, even on her feverous skin. Her eyes flutter closed, and for a brief moment, she allows herself to revel in the feeling—the warm ache between her legs, the burn on her back, on her knees, and on her hands, his cum cooling on her skin—tangible proof of what they’ve done. 

Proof that he still wanted her.

When she opens her eyes, he’s staring down at her as he tucks himself back into his jeans. He buckles his belt, never taking his eyes off hers. 

For a moment, she thinks he might leave, and her heart aches at the thought. Her hand twitches at her side, but before she can reach for him, he leans forward and lays his hand flat on her chest, right above her racing heart. She wonders if he can feel how fast it's beating. He lingers there for a long minute, just watching his own hand press against her breast. Then, slowly, he slides his hand upward, his fingers slipping smoothly over her cum-slick skin until it settles on her neck.

He wraps his long fingers around her throat, grip firm, but not too hard. 

His eyes trace a path from his hand around her neck to the dip in her chin then over the curve of her lips and along the slope of her nose until, finally, he meets her gaze. He’s looking at her so intensely she feels she might burn up from the heat of it. She stares back at him—eyes narrowed and defiant despite how completely vulnerable she feels. 

He mutters something so softly she wouldn’t be sure he said anything at all if she hadn’t been looking at him. He shakes his head, sighing.

“I hate you,” he says again, looking back at her. She knows he means it. She feels it too—the hatred between them—it twists up inside her like a snake coiling itself around her heart and squeezing so tight she’s afraid it’ll burst from the pressure. 

“I know, “ she whispers. His grip tightens before she can say anything else. It’s uncomfortable now, but not painful. 

“I want you dead, Elisabeth,” his grip tightens again, “Wanna kill you myself.” She can still breath, just barely, only short, raspy gasps come out with each inhale. He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting from her face to his hand. When he finally looks back at her, his eyes are so dark they’re almost black, and his expression is pained as if she’s the one choking him. 

She’s not scared, not really. Even with his fingers wrapped tight around her neck and her own labored breathing ringing in her ears, there’s something in the way he’s looking at her that keeps her calm. She’s certain he won’t do it. 

He won’t kill her. 

“Shoulda killed you then,” he cuts off the last of her air, “Woulda saved me a lotta trouble.” 

She stays still even as fear jolts through her. She digs her nails into her palm, pushing back the urge to rip his hands from her. Every fiber of her being screams at her to fight back. To kick and scratch and bite. To wrap her own hands around his neck and squeeze until she’s the only one left breathing.

But she doesn’t move. 

The tears leaking from her eyes aren’t just from his punishing grip, but from the sorrow and regret for everything she’s done. She wants it to be done. She wants to feel something other than that hollow, ever-present ache in her chest. 

He’s choking her and she feels half dead already, but she still doesn’t move. She’ll let him hurt her—with his hands and with his words—she can bare it. And after everything, all the pain she’s caused, she thinks that maybe she even deserves it. 

He’s still talking, but she can’t understand what he’s saying anymore. His words sound so far away as if he’s speaking to her from another room. Her head swims, and the ringing in her ears drowns him out entirely. 

_He won’t do it. He won’t do it. He won’t do it._

Her lungs burn, screaming for air, but her body is cold. She’s numb to everything now, everything but the pain in her chest and the warmth of his hand on her neck. Her eyes are still on his, but he's blurry and distorted like she’s looking up at him from underwater. 

Did it feel like this for him? When she’d left him to die—choking on his own blood. Could he see her standing over him, crying and shaking, with his gun in her hand? Or did darkness close in on him before he could see her run from him—leaving him to die alone in his empty loft.

Feebly, she grabs at his arm, feeling the muscles beneath in his arm flexing as he chokes her, but she barely has the strength left to hold onto him. For the first time, just as the darkness begins to overtake her own vision, she thinks he might actually kill her this time. 

How stupid of her to think he wouldn’t do it. How pathetic to have given into him like this. To submit to him without a fight. To die—naked and exposed—alone in her empty room in her empty house.

Then he lets go.

She gasps for breath. It burns on its way down her raw throat and does little to quench the fire still burning in her lungs. Still, she gulps it down greedily and slowly, she comes back to herself.

Her head throbs painfully and her throat feels like she drank boiling water, but her vision clears. She can see him, crystal clear, still leaning over her and watching her choke on her own breath. His gaze is open and tender—there’s a warmth in his eyes she hadn’t seen since he was last in her bedroom. He looks perfectly at ease, kneeling casually between her legs as if he hadn’t almost choked her to death just a minute before. 

Looking up at his beautiful, relaxed face, a wave of longing rolls over her and for a brief, delirious second, she is overcome with the desire to kiss him.

But then, just as suddenly, anger shoots through her and she closes her eyes tight, unable to look him anymore. She’s disgusted with him and with herself. 

This whole situation was so unbelievably fucked up. 

She jolts at something soft on her neck and for a brief, panicked moment, she thinks he’s going to choke her again—to finish what he started and put them both out of their misery. Her eyes fly open, but before she can get her hand up to stop him, he’s moved away, dragging something silky from the hollow of her throat across her chest. 

He does it again. And again. And again. 

She watches him closely as he drags the robe over her, careful and diligent in his movements. He takes his time cleaning her off—wiping away the cum and sweat from her skin as gently as a conservator removing discolored varnish from a tarnished masterpiece. 

“Rio,” her voice is hoarse and hardly even a whisper, but he hears her, his hand stilling just above her heart. She repeats his name, louder if just as hoarse, and brings her own hand up to rest on his.

“W-why did you come here tonight?” Her throat aches, but she pushes through, croaking out each word slowly and deliberately.  
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look at her. Her grip tightens around his fingers, willing him to say something—anything—but he doesn’t, just extracts his fingers from hers. 

“Did you-,” she stops, suddenly unsure she wants to hear his answer. She takes a shallow, shuddering breath, “Did you come here to kill me?”

His eyes snap to hers, narrowed with annoyance. She holds his gaze, demanding an answer, unwilling to be cowed by him. They stare each other down for a long moment, both unblinking and unrelenting.

Then he laughs. He actually laughs at her. It’s dry and humorless, but a laugh all the same, and she hates him for it. But he still gives her a sharp shake of his head for an answer. 

“Why then?” 

He tells her then, his fingers carefully push her hair from her tear-streaked face, that he’d come only because he wanted her. 

“What are we going to do about it?” 

“We’ll figure something out, yeah?” he says with a small smile before pressing his lips to hers.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @bethsuglywigs.


End file.
